Per Form

Ridin the bus with a carry on/
plug to my left/
ultra black monster in hand/
pharoahe on my chest/
presidential band on my wrist/
switching lanes and time zones/
can't afford a private jet/
so I'm heading for the throne/
perched on top of the game/
leaving corpses in the streets/
I'm a vulture of violence/
digesting these switchblade beats/
full of whiskey and beer/
soaked from the warm rain/
waiting on the sun to rise/
if only the sky knew my name/

Strikes of lightening, thunder clouds/
what you know about being loud/
I clap back at the city that raised me/
I wear a snap back on the daily/
cause I'm a dead poet without a name/
from a secret society, no claim to fame/
just a captain running with a crew of two/
sailing through the city with nothing to do/
but ball out on a bus travelling west/
drink whiskey and lay claim to be the best/
trying to take a piss rolling at a 100/
but these sea legs just don't cut it/
so I take up arms and spark the  powder/
now it's time to make the crowd get louder/